


The Rough And The Smooth

by flawedamythyst



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-25
Updated: 2009-08-25
Packaged: 2018-10-16 02:36:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: Incest isn't all schmoop and epic romance and whiskers on kittens, you know. Sometimes there's drunken freak-outs as well.





	

Dean had to move Sam's arm to pull himself out of bed, and Sam signalled his displeasure with a grunt and cracked open an eyelid.

"Where ya going, man?" he asked, his speech slurred. He'd been about three fifths of the way towards falling asleep, the late afternoon sun glowing warmly behind the faded curtains.

Dean grinned at him as he pulled on his jeans, the wide, happy, almost smug grin of a man who had come twice in the last hour. "I'm starving," he announced. "I'm going to get food."

Sam gave up on his vague half-plan to somehow get Dean back in the bed. If Dean was going for food, there was no way he'd succumb to even Sam's best blandishments. "Get something to take away," he said instead. "Something that doesn't look and taste as if it's already been dead for a week."

Dean stood up to reach for his shirt, which for some reason was draped over the TV. "Yes, boss," he said.

Sam let his eyes shut again, falling back into the drowsing state he'd been in before Dean moved. He was pretty much completely asleep when Dean's keys jangled, then there was the soft touch of a hand against his hair, followed by the door shutting.

 

****

 

It was dark when he woke up, and the room was empty. He sat up with a start as soon as he was awake enough to register that and glanced at the clock. Dean should have been back hours ago. His hands reached automatically for his phone and hit speed dial.

Dean answered slowly. "'Lo?" he rasped out.

Sam felt relief flood through him. "Where are you?" he asked abruptly.

There was silence for a moment, during which Sam could hear voices in the background, and a vague chink of glasses. _A bar_ , he recognised with annoyance. Anger flooded in to replace the fear.

"Dunno," said Dean after a while. "It's across from the diner."

"Right," bit off Sam, and hung up. He pulled on his clothes with fast, angry movements, grabbed his wallet in case Dean had run up a tab, and headed out of the motel room.

The Impala was still in the parking lot, so wherever Dean was was within walking distance. Sam headed for the apparent centre of the tiny town they were in, keeping an eye open for shabby, dingy-looking bars of the type his brother liked to frequent.

When he found one, painted a vague brown colour with a worn sign announcing 'Jack's Place', he pushed inside the door hard enough to bounce it off the wall.

Dean was sitting at the bar, staring down into a half-empty glass of whisky as if it held all the answers to life. He looked up when Sam strode over to him, and gave him a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

"Heya, Sammy," he slurred. "How're you?"

He waved over at the barmaid, who was watching him with a cautious expression, as if wondering how much of her bar was going to survive Dean being drunk.

"Hey, Tracy, this is Sammy. He's my...” Dean paused then, and he turned to Sam. "What are you today? My boyfriend?" he said the last word with as much venom as he could muster, and Sam felt his anger fading back into resignation.

"I'm the guy who's going to put you to bed and make sure you don't choke on your own vomit," he replied, more bitterly than he'd intended to.

Every few months Dean had one of these freak outs. Everything would be fine; then, with no warning at all, Sam would find Dean in some dump of a bar, drunk as a skunk, and rambling about this thing between them as if it was akin to torturing puppies.

The first time had been nearly six weeks after they'd both given up pretending there was anything normal about them and started fucking as often as they could, wherever they could. Dean had disappeared from their motel room while Sam was asleep, and when Sam had tracked him down, he was arguing with a barman about being cut off.

"You know," he'd said as Sam practically carried him back to the motel room, afternoon sun shining down and people staring at them as if they were from another planet. "You know, I sometimes think about phoning up the FBI and telling them they got it all wrong, all those crimes they think we've done." He paused, then amended himself. "Well, mostly wrong. I guess we did break into a few places, and beat up a couple of people."

Sam had gritted his teeth, and kept on going, ignoring the horrified look the mother wheeling her baby down the road in a pink carriage gave them, and the way she crossed to the other side of the street so she didn't have to pass them.

"Yeah," continued Dean, oblivious. "I'd tell them we didn't do none of that crap, but that we do commit a crime almost every day. Sometimes several times a day." He squinted up at Sam. "Think they'd drop the charges if we came clean with them? Can't see the manhunt for incest being as ruthless as the one for murder."

He'd passed out the minute Sam had dumped him on the bed, and when he'd woken up the next day, he'd refused to talk about it. At the time Sam had thought it meant an end to this thing between them, but that evening Dean had crowded him up against the bathroom wall while he was brushing his teeth and given him a searingly hot handjob that had blended into a long, hard fuck as soon as they made it to the bed. After that, everything was just as it had been, and Sam had thought it was just a momentary glitch, until it happened again. And again.

By now, he was resigned and a little tired of the whole thing. He'd have thought that after more than a year, Dean would have got his brain together on this, and quit freaking out.

“Nah, it's fine,” said Dean, turning back to the barmaid. “I'm good here.”

The barmaid shot a quick look at Sam, but she didn't need to say anything. Sam sighed and pulled Dean's shoulder. “Come on, man, before you're too drunk to walk and I have to carry you.”

Dean grumbled something that Sam couldn't make out, but which might have included the word 'bride' and definitely included a couple of swearwords, then swung around on the stool and stood up. He wobbled slightly, but was steady enough on his feet that Sam didn't feel the need to lend him a hand. Instead, he threw a couple of notes on the bar to appease the barmaid, then turned and left the bar, Dean's stuttering steps coming after him.

He was tempted to just stride off back to the motel and leave Dean to find his own way back, but one glance over his shoulder at the way Dean was weaving slightly as he walked made him sigh and slow up a bit.

“It's not far,” he said, and Dean nodded, chin tucked down against his chest.

“Never is,” he said.

They walked in silence for a while, Dean's steps slowing down and then speeding up in a sudden flurry as if he was worried Sam was going to leave him behind.

“Why'd you keep doing this?” asked Sam quietly, not even sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Dean didn't reply straight away, and Sam resigned himself to just getting him home and putting him to bed, and then acting tomorrow as if nothing had happened.

“Dunno,” said Dean eventually. “Just...gets too much sometimes.”

Sam scowled to cover up the sting of hurt. “Then say something before it gets this far, and I'll back off.”

“No, no, no,” said Dean, waving his hands slightly dramatically, which set him wobbling even more. “No, not you. S'me. I just. It all wells up, and I kinda feel like I'm choking.” Sam wasn't sure what to say to that, and they walked in silence for a while, until Dean said, with a hard, bitter edge to his voice that Sam could have cut himself on, “I just want to make you _happy_.”

“Real great job you're doing right now,” Sam muttered.

“And then I get to wondering,” said Dean, ignoring him, “what would Dad think?” Sam winced at that. “I mean, Sammy, we're _brothers_. We shouldn't be like this. I shoulda...I dunno. Something.”

Sam didn't really have a good answer to that one. “But it is making us happy,” he said carefully.

“Well, yeah,” agreed Dean as if that was obvious. “S'why I only do this every coupla months.” He fell silent for a while, and Sam left him to it, anger completely forgotten. He just felt tired now, weary of not being able to just relax with this thing, always having the dark cloud of _wrong_ over them.

They arrived back at the hotel, and Sam opened the door while Dean leaned against the wall, head tipping back with a bang that made Sam wince, but that Dean didn't seem to notice. Sam pulled him up and manhandled him into the room, pushed him down onto the bed, and then started to work on getting his boots off while Dean gave a little, tired sigh and relaxed back.

“S'not that it's not awesome,” he said suddenly into the silence of the room. “It's just...you know. Brothers. Weird.”

“I know,” said Sam, putting Dean's boots by the bed.

“Great,” sighed Dean, then turned over and cuddled into the pillow. Sam straightened up and looked at him for a couple of moments, just taking in the line of his back, and the curve of his ass, and the uncomfortable way his shirt was all twisted up around his body. He eyed the bared strip of flesh, thinking about how it was made up of cells that came from the same DNA as his, about how they shared blood, about how they'd grown up together. Dean was right, it was weird.

He pulled his eyes and his thoughts away from Dean with a sigh. There was no use brooding on all this now – it was what it was, and there was no changing it. Or wanting to, really. His stomach rumbled, and he thought about going out to find the food Dean was meant to have been buying, then went to get the laptop instead, to find a nearby pizza place that might deliver. As it pinged on, Dean made a grumbly noise and muttered something about marshmallows. Sam smiled over at him, and thought that, it may be weird, but it was totally worth it.

He glanced back at the laptop, then dumped it on the floor. He could order pizza any time. He stripped off his own boots and jeans, then slid into bed next to Dean, curling one arm around him. They might never be able to be truly honest about this to other people, and Dean might keep having these freak outs for the rest of their lives, but Sam was more than willing to put up with that in return for getting to have this.

 


End file.
